September 2010 archive

I think I am swiftly becoming more qualified to write about toots of the world (hands down, Holland has the weirdest. They look normal until you open the lid to find a mysterious platform about half way up the bowl. Its all a bit too “in your face” for my toilet tastes) than I am peanut butters. The only foods readily available in Europe are pizza, pasta, ice-cream, and beer and beer and also beer. Sounds alright to everyone who doesn’t have a digestive system like a defective fire hose. But, all of those foods grant me the opportunity to get my PhD with honours in plumbing. For weeks, nay months, we have been trekking around Europe, with me wailing “FRESH food, J-man, FRESH food”. Occasionally I come across a fly-blown banana from Equador, but otherwise it’s been dairy, wheat and death carbs the whole time. Bloating has gotten so bad, I’ve been asked three times if I am pregnant and I swear a lady on a bus in Dubrovnik gave up her seat for me after looking at my belly.

The good news is that our surprise mini-break to Bosnia has provided some relief. The food is rich, yes, but the kebabs are overflowing with salad – tomato! hello lover – and their national dishes have been a vacation for my intestines. Even if the most famous dish here, ćevapi, looks like this:

And then there’s the coffee. Oh my, my, the coffee. I’m not one of those coffee wankers, hells I practically lick Nescafe instant out of the jar, but I don’t think I can ever turn back after having Bosnian coffee. This is not me posing by the way. It’s me casually scoping out the nearest WC.

On a blog I mostly dedicate to my bowels, public humiliations and love of breakfast spreads, I didn’t feel like I could even attempt to tell you about how much I have loved Sarajevo. It is a wonderful city, with incredibly friendly people, a buzzing atmosphere, amazing cuisine and a content, easygoing vibe. All of this just over a decade since it was completely surrounded and devastated by regular bombings and brutal shootings. I have been moved and changed by meeting people who lived through that time. The locals are passionate about people discovering their city, and the rest of Bosnia, not because of its bloody history but because of its inherent beauty and everything it has to offer. A destination that will stay with me.

Pula had given us a beating. It was hot, we got lost, we took the wrong bus to a depressing shopping centre in the boondocks. So to reward ourselves, J-man and I did what any other couple in their 20s would do. Yep, we gots ourselves tickets to a dog show.

I think a dog show in the carpark is exactly what the Romans had in mind when they built the amphitheatre here. Gladiators, triumph, bloodshed, courage and prancing poodles.

Over cold beers and plate full of suspicious-looking sausages, I appointed myself Queen Lady Judge of the People of the Pula Pedigree Dog Show (QLJOTPOTPPDS, for short).

Below is the list of the blue ribbon winners in the most coveted categories:

Blokes with top bitches:

First prize goes to these dudes for their obvious dedication. They spent so long making sure their dogs matched, they forget to pay attention to the fact that fanny packs went out of fashion about two decades ago.

Special mention goes to these guys and their pedigree bitches.

Dog and breeder with the best sense of humour:

With a dog that big, she would know.

Dog and breeder with the greatest likeness:

Jesus did it, so why can’t she create something in her own image?

Breeder who covets his dogs the most:

Once these little puppies are past their dog show prime, their manes should come in very handy.

Best in show:

This couple didn’t have their dog on show, but I would have loved to have put a leash on them and trot around the showground. I imagine her name is Ivanika and his is Gerhardt. They don’t have a surname, just a mansion by the seaside, a giant yacht, a tanning bed, a golden retriever, a mirrors on their bedroom ceiling and a neverending bottle of Botox. They truly were a vision – a prime example of high class breeding.